


Lie Better Next Time

by navree



Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, imagine spending all your time with someone that pretty, look at matt's social media he's the kING of pining, though I can't blame him, y'all are really sleeping on jimmatt huh, you'd get infatuated too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-21 23:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: He's not an idiot, he knows what Jim's like. He's not blind, he knows how other people(Tapper)look at Jim too. He's not delusional, he knows he's a footnote in Jim's story.Spending so much time working with Jim Acosta is having entirely foreseen consequences.





	Lie Better Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> I got in too deep on a discord chat and honestly if you scroll through Matt's insta or his Twitter like half of the content is Jim related and the other half is dogs. So basically Jim has a thing for men who love dogs and want him too much that's valid  
> as always, comments (either positive or constructive) are always welcome and much appreciated!

In all likelihood, being a senior producer for the White House Unit would have been an adventure no matter what. The world's tilted on its axis and no matter who the network ended up choosing for White House correspondents, it was always bound to be hectic and bordering on insane. 

But Matt is, on more than one occasion, very grateful that CNN shoved Jim into the role. Jim embraces it wholeheartedly of course, Icarus soaring into the sun, unheeding and uncaring. It's all very classic Jim. Warnings? Caution? Those are for the common folk, not Jim Acosta. No, Jim Acosta shouts questions and infuriates everyone on the planet and has a _reputation_ amongst the network.

But Jim's also great fun, fun to talk to and laugh with and catch a drink with and just be around. And it certainly doesn't hurt that Jim's rather ridiculously attractive. Of course, that's not the reason why he snaps about as many pictures of Jim as he does of his dog. OK, maybe part of the reason, but not all of it. 

It's also because Jim's just really photogenic and photogenic people are easier to capture on film. 

 

 

 

He really should have seen this coming. Should have seen it coming from the moment he started working behind the camera Jim's in front of, on the campaign and now at the White House. 

First it was just a friendship thing. Because Jim seems to be one of those people that has no problem making friends, who segues into conversations easily and doesn't mind spending some time together outside of work and is altogether just enjoyable to be around. 

Then it was something of a physical thing. Because Matt notices that Jim's _very_ good looking, that he has a nice sparkle in his eyes, that the salt and pepper in his hair makes him look more dashing, that he wears his suits almost exquisitely well. 

Then it became more of an emotional thing. Because Jim makes him feel like one in a million when he gives him that bright smile, because Matt covered for him that weekend he fucked off to California, because Jim has on numerous occasions called him 'my friend Matt' and made his heart ache. 

And it was always a one sided thing. First, in the beginning, when Matt wasn't even sure if he thought of Jim as a friend, let alone anything more, there was Sharon. And then, as he was beginning to realize that he was falling for Jim and falling hard, there wasn't Sharon, and Matt very briefly entertained the fantasy that his friend would turn to him for comfort. But then there was a string of various people, including Don and Anderson and Brooke and _others_. And, of course, Liz, when Matt was well and fully aware that he was infatuated with Jim by this point. 

This doesn't even touch on _him_ , and while Matt can say with at least 50% accuracy he's never been jealous of most of Jim's liaisons, he knows he's jealous of _him_ and the way he's wormed himself into Jim's heart, all encompassing, blotting Matt out. 

 

 

 

He's trying really hard to remember all this information about the Italian election, but it's early in the morning and they have to spend time in Italy so many he'll just try and read up about it on the plane. Why He Who Must Not Be Named wants to go to Italy is beyond him, but the man's never really been reasonable, now has he? But at least there'll be good food, and Jim agreed to split cab fare on the way to the airstrip so it can't all be that bad. 

Jim's already waiting for them when the yellow taxi pulls up by his brownstone, and he literally just has an over the shoulder bag, larger than a messenger bag but not necessarily an actual suitcase. Matt feels the urge to shake him and ask him why he's incapable of taking care of himself properly. Jim slides into the car, pulling the door shut in the same motion. He sets his bag at his feet. 

"You do realize that we're gonna be in Florence for about a week, right?" Jim nods, propping his elbow against the window and resting his cheek in his palm. 

"Florence is apparently one of the fashion hubs of the world." Matt nods and pretends like he knows that already. "There's an entire street that's devoted to selling all the big brands. I've been told to pick up a few new suits if I can. So I packed light." 

"Who's the one who gave you fashion purchase advice?" he asks, trying his hand at playing coy. Jim's better at it, and just glances up at him, still supported by his hand, eyes dark and unfathomable, framed by black eyelashes, a slow smile spreading on his lips. Matt's stomach flipflops. 

"Besides, if I'm gonna have the White House hate me, they might as well be allowed a healthy dose of jealousy too." Matt laughs, and Jim along with him. "Fuck, why are we doing this whole meeting the new Prime Minister nonsense in Florence again?" 

"Do you ever read anything to prepare for this stuff?" Jim's free hand swats at his arm playfully, Matt resists the urge to catch it in his. "Prime Minister says Florence is Italy's cultural center, and more tourist friendly." 

"Probably got banned from Rome because everyone's afraid he'll try to punch the Pope in the face or something." Again, they laugh, and Matt catches the cabbie looking at them askance in the rearview mirror. "I don't think even God could forgive that." 

"Doesn't God forgive everything? Isn't that His whole shtick?" Jim cants his head and then turns to look out the window. The sky's starting to pale. 

"It's supposed to be." 

 

 

 

They haven't even taken off and Jim somehow already has a drink. Clear like water, but giving off such a smell that it can't be water. "Vodka?" Matt asks. Jim nods and takes a sip. "How do you _al_ ready have vodka?"

"Clout," Jim answers cheekily, taking a larger swig. He doesn't even wince or anything. Matt has no idea how he can do that. One time they'd gone to a bar and Matt had made the error of ordering one of those neon colored drinks, the ones that taste like cough syrup and rubbing alcohol and pure sugar, and he'd coughed and coughed for two minutes straight while Jim pounded him on the back. 

Meanwhile Jim can go through an entire full bottle of tequila, with the only evidence of it a slight wobble in his step and shinier eyes. 

"You have clout with the airline stewardesses?" Jim swirls his drink in the clear plastic cup. He glances at Matt, and has the nerve to actually wink. 

"Among other people." _Other people more like every people_ , Matt thinks to himself, and goes back to staring out the plane window. 

 

 

 

The plane is dark. Almost everyone in the cabin is sleeping, except for Matt, who tries very hard not to sleep on flights so he can get as acclimated to the new timezones as quickly as possible. So while everyone's napping, he glances over the briefing packet a final time, his reading light the only illumination in the cabin. 

Apparently, if the margin is too close in an Italian election, the election just keeps on going until they have another vote with an acceptable margin. Maybe America should try that. Maybe they'd be better off. Matt shuts the packet, turns the light off, and tries to find a movie to watch to pass the time, wondering if he can try and ask for a Coke or something to get him on a sugar high so he stays awake. 

In his seat, Jim makes a huffing noise and moves slightly. Jim sleeps on flights, yeah, but always in fits and starts, and always very restless. Wherever they go, if it's far enough away, Jim has deep and dark circles under his eyes, accenting his cheekbones and long eyelashes, lids pearly from sleeplessness. It's not arresting, it's _not_ -Oh who is Matt kidding, it is very arresting. 

Jim has the blankets pulled up to his shoulders, his body tucked agains his pillow, looking almost innocent. Matt can't see much in the dark, and if he didn't want to wake anyone up he'd turn the light back on, just so he can stare at Jim like an absolute idiot. He doesn't, because he's not an idiot, not entirely, but he does take a moment in the gloom to ogle his friend. 

He looks a bit uncomfortable, because Jim hates sleeping on planes, like he's two seconds away from waking up. But still...how is he this beautiful? He's Botticelli angel gorgeous, even tired and frustrated and hazy in the dark. It absolutely isn't fair. Jim makes a discontented humming noises, opens his eyes, paintbrush lashes fluttering. 

"Hey Matty." He's groggy, whispering. Matt loves it when Jim calls him that. He started calling him that soon after the Inauguration, when it became clear things weren't going to die down, not at all. He'd saunter in, handsome and carefree, wave his fingers in a casual wave. _Hey Matty_. Easy, breezy, like it's the most natural thing in the whole world. 

Jim's weird about nicknames. He calls Matt _Matty_ , and he goes by Jim instead of _Abilio_ or even _James_ , but most of the time he prefers proper names for other people. Don Jr. is almost always _Donald Jr._ , and he has a tendency to call Liz _Elizabeth_. Of course, sometimes, there's  _Jacob_. 

Matt doesn't answer Jim, just gives him a little two fingered salute. Jim makes another sound in the back of his throat, displeased and appreciative both at the same time. He's good at that, expressing dualities. It's one of the first things that made Matt realize he was actually falling in love. That realization came to him slowly, methodically, piece by piece over a long stretch of time. It came to him so slowly that he hadn't even noticed it, until one day he looked at Jim and _Oh_.

He loves Jim Acosta. Huh. 

It was quite the realization at the time, but Matt's grown used to it now. Which is why when Jim blinks away his sleepiness, rubs at his eyes and cracks his neck, exposing the column of his throat, the obligatory voice in Matt's head is accepted, part of the routine, part of life. 

 _God you're beautiful. God I love you._ That, and variations of it, have been on a loop for a while now, a constant refrain in his head. He never says it out loud though, of course. The man has enough on his plate, and right now he looks bone tired. 

 

 

 

There is, of course, the issue of Matt realizing he was in love with Jim right when Jim was in the throes of self destruction. He might have loved Jim before that spiral of ruination began, but he was only aware of it once it was full throttle. 

Matt can't really pinpoint when it began. Almost no one can, because most people don't seem to realize that Jim is losing it, slowly but surely. He's pretty shut off, even for a showboat. He keeps his private life private, as he's allowed to do. The problem with that is, again, most people aren't aware that Jim's hurtling towards Hell. Matt's noticed, because Matt spends an inordinate amount of time with him, and because they're friends. 

And good friends notice when their other friend is going through something like this.

Maybe it started after Jim went to Cuba with Obama. That's the first time Matt remembers him looking hollow, when he came back. Matt can sympathize with that. Not empathize, he doesn't think he can empathize with the experience that comes with being Cuban American, it's a unique feeling. And based on what Jim wrote about it, quietly, without a lot of fanfare, a unique pain. 

Or maybe it was when Trump started going after him, along with the rest of the press. Thomas Llamas, a sleaze. Little Katy Tur. And Jim, a real beauty. Matt knows Jim hates that, he gets weird and cagey half the time people bring it up. This, Matt can understand, it felt gross and sleazy. 

However it started, it started. And it got worse after the election. Sometimes Jim just looked dead. Like a corpse. 

And then his marriage and his family fell apart and when he wasn't pretending to be OK, and when he wasn't looking dead, he was looking like he'd been gutted. Like someone had taken a knife and just sliced him open, meat on a butcher's slab. Matt can't understand it because Jim doesn't talk about, doesn't talk about his divorce or how readily he let his children go, for their own good. 

That's when it got really bad. 

That's when Matt started noticing that Jim drinking more, a lot more, even if it didn't affect him at all. Even if it was basically like drinking water. And he started smoking more frequently, which really tipped him off, because pre self destruction Jim only really smoked cigars with his dad, some father son Cuban tradition thing. And after Sharon, Jim started sleeping around a lot, which was well within his right to do, even if it meant Matt spent more than a few nights locked out of their hotel room, feeling jealous and being mad for feeling jealous. 

Through it all, through this slow jump off a cliff, Matt starts to notice something else. Jim used to have a routine Sunday mornings. He used to put his hand in his pocket and clench his fist around something when tense. And sometimes, Matt would catch him whispering, in languages he could never understand, when it was dark and the world felt a bit crueler. Sometimes it sounded like Spanish. Sometimes it sounded like something older. 

But Jim doesn't do that anymore. His Sundays are irregular, his hands always linked in front of him, his lips all but sewn shut. It leaves Matt wondering who turned his back on who first, Jim or God? 

It got absolutely atrocious when they moved Jim's slot. He started corresponding almost exclusively with Wolf, which was fine. Wolf's show was good, and the two of them got along OK. But it also meant...well, Matt doesn't like to think about what it meant. Doesn't like to think about how that sent Jim into a black hole for a while. Doesn't like to think that _he_ was able to get a reaction Matt probably never could.

How sick is that? His friend is falling apart at the seams because his life is a living Hell, and Matt's jealous that he doesn't elicit the same reaction as some other person. Even if _he_ isn't just some other person. Maybe Matt wants him to feel that much about him, or at least more than just as a friend. 

But really, what Matt wants is for this to stop. He wants Jim to stop pretending that he's OK, start meaning it when he says he's fine. He wants for Jim to find his peace with his Lord again, wants Jim to stop looking to alcohol to absolve him of sin, wants Jim to breathe in clean air, wants him to learn to love himself again. 

He suspects he might be waiting for a while. Maybe forever. 

 

 

 

Supposedly invented by the Chinese, there is an ancient form of torture that is nothing more than cold, tiny drops falling upon a person’s forehead.

On its own, a single drop is nothing. It falls upon the brow making a tiny splash. It doesn’t hurt. No real harm comes from it.

In multitudes, the drops are still fairly harmless. Other than a damp forehead, there really is no cause for concern.

The key to the torture is being restrained. You cannot move. You must feel each drop. You have lost all control over stopping these drops of water from splashing on your forehead.

It still doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. But person after person, time and time again—would completely unravel psychologically. They all had a breaking point where each drop turned into a horror. Building and building until all sense of sanity was completely lost.

Maybe that's what's happened. Everything tormenting him, slowly but surely, drop by drop, until it drove Jim Acosta to madness and ruination. 

 

 

 

They're going to have exactly two days where they're not constantly covering He Who Must Not Be Named. The first is the morning they land, and they do land very early in the morning. The second is the morning they take off. Doesn't really leave a lot of time, but they're not here on vacation or to be tourists. They're here to do a job. 

Still, Jim and Matt spend their first free morning touring. They look at the Arno from the Ponte Vecchio, they visit the Uffizi and the Palazzo Vecchio and gardens of Villa La Pietra, admire the David and the artwork, and finally make their way to the Duomo. It's gorgeous, beautiful and imposing, and even the heat and the jostling crowds can't stop Matt from tipping his head back and gazing in awe. 

Jim maneuvers them not to the line, but to somewhere else. 

"You don't wanna see the inside?" Matt asks, confused. Jim gives him a look. 

"Apparently if you go inside to pray you get in for free." 

"I don't think God would approve of you using Him to circumvent the system like this," Matt tells him. Jim rolls his eyes, but his shoulders tense up ever so slightly. 

"If He doesn't like it, He can tell me himself." The way Jim says it is perfectly normal, perfectly casual, perfectly regular Jim. But Matt has a suspicion that's exactly what Jim wants, for God to come down from Heaven and talk to him, take him in His arms, tell him why. Why are You doing this, what did Jim do to make You hate him so much? 

The church is cool as they enter. Jim dips slightly, puts his fingers in the holy water and crosses himself, presses his hand to his lips momentarily. There are candles glimmering, signs of the scores of faithful. Jim lights one, bows his head, lips moving silently. Matt stares at the architecture, at the beauty, gives Jim a moment of privacy. It's absolutely breathtaking here. 

Divine, that's the word Matt's looking for. It's divine. 

When he looks back, Jim's got a rosary wrapped around his fingers, words too low for him to hear, and there's one tear track on his cheek. Matt looks away again, sharply. Eventually, he hears Jim let out a breath. When Matt dares to look again, he's normal. 

"Would you hate me if I ask for a couple moments?" He jerks his head towards the pew. _No, no God no, of course not, I could never hate you, I love you_. 

"No problem." Jim walks over, sits down, folds his hands together and presses them to his forehead. Matt leaves, back into the afternoon sun. He scopes out places for them to eat, he pets a carriage horse, he eats some gelato, he thinks about how Jim's tortured relationship to God is just another facet he'll never understand. This time though, it's OK. This time Matt's less jealous. 

Or maybe he's learning not to be a shitty person. 

Jim comes back out after a while, looking entirely normal, no hints of anything. He's got his jacket slung over his shoulder, an easy smile on his face. He almost hurts to look at, sometimes. 

"I'm starving," he tells Matt jovially, normally. "Tell me there's a place we can eat." 

They end up at Mister Pizza, still in the Piazza, and while the pizza's delicious and the conversation's lively, Jim's phone is buzzing a lot, and he spends as much time answering texts, grinning at his phone, as he does talking to Matt. This _does_ make him a bit jealous, because he's either talking to two people to make him look like that. Either he's talking to Liz, and Matt's jealous of his girlfriend. Or he's talking to _him_ , and Matt's jealous because he's left out in the cold. 

Yeah, no, OK. He's still a shitty person, apparently. 

 

 

 

They cover all they're supposed to, and the scandals are minor, at least for this administration. Matt works the camera, and Jim lights it up, the way he always does, the way he's so so good at doing. 

It happens every time they're on air. Matt watches him and falls a little bit more in love with every passing second. 

 

 

 

 

What kind of hotel bar plays the news? This one, apparently. And they're playing CNN too. Imagine that.

He and Jim are at the bar. It's their last night, they can afford it to themselves. Matt's nursing a beer, and Jim, being an asshole and classy, has bourbon. On the rocks. A confession? Matt didn't actually know on the rocks meant with ice until Jim ordered a bourbon on the rocks to follow his neat bourbon **_(_** without ice **_)_** and it arrived with ice. You learn something new every day. 

Jim's only taken about two sips of this drink, and Matt's starting to let himself wonder. He hasn't gone to excess on this trip. Maybe whatever's been clawing at him is dying down. Maybe he's reconciled himself with the world. Or God. Or both. Maybe Jim's gonna be OK. 

They're laughing and joking with each other about Trump's idioms, the way he speaks. It's just so easy to imitate, and sometimes Matt slips into an awful impression. But it makes Jim laugh. Jim's got a beautiful laugh, just like he has a beautiful smile. Like staring at the sun. And Matt's compared him to Icarus, really, but maybe he's a bit Icarus too, given how readily he would dive towards the sun, the sea, towards Jim. 

"The man's a nutcase," Matt complains, taking another sip of beer. Jim doesn't follow suit. 

"Yeah, no shit," he deadpans, and somehow this sends them both into peals of laughter again. This is good. It feels easy, like the world's been momentarily put right on its axis. 

Or was the world ever right on its axis? He'd heard once that the reason they had seasons was because the Earth was very sharply tilted, allowing for things like longer and shorter days, longer and shorter nights. Maybe that's why everything's always been so screwed. Maybe they've just been slow catching up with the planet's fundamental prophecy. 

"How long do you think it'll be before these two are at each other's throats?" Matt asks. Jim scoffs and shakes his head. 

"Depends on whether this guy's either a) trying to be a dictator or b) willing to roll over and be a foreign lapdog," he says, tone both playful and biting. "I say we give it a few weeks and then figure out if we've made ourselves another enemy." 

"Christ." Matt takes another long sip. Jim takes a very small one. Matt feels kind of jubilant. This has to be a good sign, right. Maybe whatever prayer Jim sent up earlier this week, in the Duomo, actually worked. Maybe he's clawing his way out of the pit he's dug himself into. That would be more a sign of Heaven than anything else Matt's ever seen in his life. 

"Hey, outta curiosity," he says, casual. Jim glances at him through long lashes. "Did you ever buy that suit?" Jim gives him a small, secretive smile, like there's some kind of inside joke. There's a hint of filth in it too, maybe. Or maybe Matt's a bit buzzed and he's just imagining what he wants instead of what's actually there. 

"There's a street near Republica's that's just all expensive shit," his tone is low, makes Matt lean in. "All the finest brands. I got myself a few things."

"Fantastic."

"Hm." Jim tilts his head slightly, like a confused dog. His lids are hooded, lashes fluttering along is cheekbones. His gaze drags along Matt's entire body, long and slow. God, does Jim know what that does to him? "I should have taken you there."

"Really?" He keeps his voice even. Jim nods, eyes liquid dark. He runs the pads of his fingers along Matt's jaw, the column of his throat, tugs at his collar a little bit. Matt wants to lean in, wants to kiss him, wants to get his hands on him. Wants so much more.

"You could use a taste of the finer things." Jim draws a way, props an elbow on the bar, fingers playing with the rim of his drink. Is Matt dreaming, or does he see the hint of a self satisfied smirk, smug and sexy, along Jim's lips? They both glance at the TV, and Matt's stomach bottoms out. They're still playing CNN.

And wouldn't you know what's on right now! The Lead with Jake Tapper.  

Tapper looks worn out. That's the only word for it. Which makes sense. It's been that kind of week, and he's been reporting on all of it with a panel that likes to shout over each other half the time. So now they're watching him and he looks haggard, exhausted, bags under his eyes and like he wants to crawl away from the world and sleep for the next decade. His hair looks grayer too. He's aged. 

Matt feels a small stab of pity. 

Jim looks at the screen for a long minute. They haven't done correspondence with The Lead for a while now, and Matt wonders if this is the first time he's actually watched Tapper on the show since...Christ, how long has it actually been? Long enough for Tapper to look more beaten down, look enough for Jim to have a muscle jump in his jaw, hard and tight. 

Jim has his almost full glass of neat bourbon, and he tips it into his mouth, drinks it all in one desperate gulp, chasing it like it's a shot of tequila, like if he finishes maybe he'll find an answer, an absolution, at the bottom of the glass. He sets it down, wipes at his lips **_(_** and even though Matt feels some kind of awful feeling at Jim's horrible habits, it's still an attractive look, his fingers near his mouth **_)_** , and waves at the bartender for another. 

"Jim," Matt begins. Jim looks at him, something hard in his eyes. It relaxes, and he glances Matt up and down again. He downs his second drink in almost record time, seems to feel nothing. He soon has his hands on a third. 

Matt was wrong. There's been no reconciliation, there's no Jim being OK any time in the near future. And in the back of his mind, Matt wonders if there's something more than abstract concepts he can blame for someone else's torn apart life. If there are specific people. One person, in particular. 

Jim leans his elbow on the bar, leans his head in his free hand. For a moment it's bowed, silvery strands sticking up between his fingers. Then he shakes whatever this is off, Matt sees him shudder, and it's back to business as usual, like nothing happened, nothing at all. Surreptitiously, he gets the channel changed anyway. They're on MSNBC now. 

Every drink Jim has, which is a lot, Matt matches. Mostly for solidarity, maybe because he wonders if it'll make him feel better too. 

 

 

 

Jim hauls him into an elevator hours later. "OK boozy, we're getting you back to the room." That's stupid. Jim can't say he's drunk, he's not. OK, he is, he totally is. What can he say, Matt shouldn't have tried to watch Jim's pace. No one drinks like Jim, alcohol is basically a vitamin to him these days. 

"You don't gotta," he begins, but they're already out the elevator, in the hallway, and Jim spirits him into his room. Jim flips the light switch, manhandles Matt so that he doesn't trip or fall. He's got an almost fond look in his eyes. 

"You are a lightweight."

" _You_ drink too much." Nothing changes in Jim's expression, his stance, but does a muscle in his jaw twitch just a little? Matt's a talkative drunk and he's at least very buzzed if not all the way already, so he keeps going. "Like, I get it, you drink, you're a grown ass adult and you can do what you want and everybody drinks a bit more nowadays. But, but you really-" he hiccups here and shrugs his jacket off. "You have enough alcohol in you to tranquilize a baby hippo and you're just, you're just fucking buzzed." 

"Call it a super power," Jim says dryly. Matt kicks off his shoes clumsily. Jim's leaning on one leg, flicks open the one button keeping his blazer buttoned open with ease. Fuck, that's hot. 

"Nah." Matt shakes his head, moving forward. "It's dangerous. You'll get, like, fucking liver cancer." Jim laughs, brilliant. "Or lung cancer, with the, the, the smoking." Not that it isn't always a beautiful sight, Jim taking a slow drag, fingers delicate near his mouth, smoke curling into the air past slightly parted lips, head tilted up to expose the smooth line of his throat. 

"Well, Matty, I'm touched to know that you care." This time Jim shrugs that jacket off, unknots his tie, undoes the top button of his dress shirt. Disheveled, devilish, beautiful. Matt's drunk and he's a fucking mess. "But I'll be fine. I'm fine."

"Nah, you're sadder than you used to be too." It slips out without his meaning to. He's a talkative drunk, after all. Jim raises an eyebrow, like when he's being sardonic with a hostile, Trump loyal crowd. But there's an unbearable agony in his eyes that he's not quite masking. Like Matt's statement caught him off guard, invaded before he could build up defenses. 

 _You don't have to defend yourself_ , Matt wants to say. _It's OK. I love you._  

"You're just, you're so fucking sad man. And you don't tell anyone how to help, you don't even tell us why." Matt teeters towards him a bit. "You won't tell us what happened. Jim, what happened?" 

"Matty." Jim says it in a way he's never said it before, almost pleading, almost desperate. Like he might die if Matt keeps talking. And maybe Matt secretly hates him, hates him for making him love him, because he does exactly that, he keeps talking. 

"Tell me, tell me what happened. Talk to me like you talk to him." 

Jim closes the distance between them in half a second, pushes Matt against the wall. There's a rushed and strangled _"Don't talk about what you don't understand"_ and then Jim is kissing him, has him pinned against the wall and both hands framing his face and is kissing him, a long and deep kiss. It robs Matt of breath, and his head hits the back of the wall. He kisses Jim back, frantic, like he doesn't know how much he wants. Jim kisses like he knows exactly what he wants. Matt pulls away just so he can breathe. 

"Jim," and he's panting more than speaking. 

"Sh, sh sh sh sh." Jim hushes him gently, but not sweetly, chases his lips, one leg between Matt's. They kiss some more, Jim's hands feel good and Matt wants to feel them everywhere. 

"You don't have to do this-" Matt tries. 

Jim interrupts him, "I know, it's fine." 

Matt tries again. "I, I, I've wanted." He wants Jim to know how long he's ached for this, how often. Jim silences him again with his lips. 

"I know I know I know." His fingers are everywhere, like he can't decide what to do with them. Matt's head falls back against the wall with a thud, and when Jim finally gets a hand under his shirt he can't help but moan at the sensation of Jim's fingertips on his bare skin. Jim, as always, feels like he's too hot, running a fever hot.

Matt's easy, he knows, so fucking easy for him but it's Jim. Jim's muttering against his skin, high and breathless and like he's forcing the words out. "Of course I know how could I have not known I know Matty I _know_." 

Were he in a better state of mind, Matt might ponder on the cruelty of that revelation. But Jim calls him Matty, Jim's the only one who calls him Matty. He's not an idiot, he knows what Jim's like. He's not blind, he knows how other people **_(_** Tapper **_)_** look at Jim too. He's not delusional, he knows he's a footnote in Jim's story. That he'll be a notch on Jim's bedpost, and they'll go back to being friends when Matt's less drunk and less talkative and they're back home. But he has this, he has Jim here, right now, and that's good enough. 

"Matty," Jim whispers it. "Tell me what you want." His mouth is on his jaw now, teeth scraping against the skin. "Go on, it's OK, tell me." It's an echo of what Matt said earlier, but Jim's voice is thick with want and he can't think he can't breathe. 

"Everything," he gasps out. He hears Jim's sigh as much as he feels it, and there's a broken note in it too. 

"Of course you do." He sounds resigned to the fact. Matt could ask him why, except Jim hauls at his shirt collar and drags him to the bed, and Matt forget the entire world. 

 

 

 

Jim falls asleep soon after. Matt takes a while longer, staring at him, calm and peaceful and not tortured for the first time in an eternity as he dreams. Of what? Matt? _Him_? 

Matt falls asleep thinking about _him_ , a hard knot in his stomach. 

 

 

 

Let's get one thing straight: he doesn't hate Jake Tapper. In fact, quite the opposite. He doesn't mind Tapper. Matt even _likes_ Tapper. Tapper's smart, he uses big important three syllable words, he's not bad looking, and he's damn good at his job. He's a decent journalist. So what if he's a bit pedantic? So what if he's a touch on the conservative side? 

So what if he's the one Jim really wants? 

That's not even the worst bit when it comes to Tapper. A lot of people want Jim, they can't help it. He's addictive.

It's the way Tapper seems to prevent Matt from hoping. Maybe if Matt thought that it was one sided, just Jim with a thing for a married man who doesn't care nearly as much, it would be better. It would mean that Matt has one over him. 

But no. No, Matt can't claim that, Matt can't claim to be the only one who cares about Jim. Matt has fucking eyes. And when they let Jim correspond with _The Lead_ , he had seen the way Tapper would always look at him. It was practically obscene. The softness of his mouth, the slightly furrowed brow, and the sheer amount of longing in his eyes, like he's desperate to keep on looking at Jim, like he'd die if he ever stopped looking at Jim.

It's love.

A terrible, tragic, tender love, one that no doubt squeezes Tapper's heart in a vice and makes him ache just to catch a glimpse of this beautiful, broken man who doesn't want anyone to know how beautiful and broken he is. 

Jim's the only one who doesn't see the way Tapper looks at him. Doesn't see that lovelorn need, that heartbroken worshipfulness. 

But he still cares about Tapper, hasn't stopped whether he's married or not, hasn't stopped whether he's been fucking strangers or not, hasn't stopped whether he's in a relationship again or not. Tapper's the one in his heart, more than anyone. Tapper's the one who's taken up all the space that could have ever been left for Matt. 

It's like Jim's heart is partitioned. There's a spot for his parents. A spot for his children. A spot for Liz. And then Tapper, filling in the rest. Probably taking over the spot meant for Jim himself. And by the time Matt knocked on the door, it was too late. Jim had invited Tapper in, and let him make himself thoroughly and completely at home. There was no room for Matt.

And he's been left wanting ever since. 

 

 

 

Matt wakes up with three things on his mind. 

One: He feels soar in a very good way, save for the pounding of his head. Two: Jim is either the best friend in the world or the worst. Three: Said best or worst friend has the loudest ringtone on the planet. He rolls over, is about to smack Jim and tell him to turn the phone off, but Jim's all but lunged to it, has it pressed to his ear before Matt can let him know he's awake. 

"Hi." His voice is soft and scratchy from sleep. "Hey sweetheart." Matt seizes up without even meaning to. There's something devastating in the way Jim just said those words, like he loves whoever he's talking to so much it might just kill him. Who's on the other line? Liz? Oh God, _Tapper_? Matt doesn't listen to Jim's soothing murmur, though he does catch a reassuring "no you didn't wake me up not at all" even though that's exactly what the caller did. 

Jim's hair is adorably mussed. 

"Oh, I love you too baby girl," he whispers, hoarse, into the phone. "You wanna put your brother on?" Matt can almost see the fond smile curling Jim's mouth, and he's an idiot. He's only ever heard Jim talk like this to two people, and those are his kids. He's talking to his fucking kids. 

If Matt wasn't still pretending to be asleep, he'd smack himself on the head. He's such a jealous fucking freak. What's the matter with him?

"What's up little big man?" Jim's still facing away, and Matt takes the time to look at him through slitted eyes, still trying to keep most of the conversation out of his head. There's a lot of humming, some chuckles. How anyone can look so beautiful in the morning, having just woken up, is unreal. It's unfair. There should be a law. He could get Trump on the horn, have something done about it. 

Jim shifts, and Matt lets his eyes close all the way, not wanting to get caught listening to something he shouldn't. There are dots of color behind his eyelids, and he focuses on them. It kind of gives him a headache. 

"I love you more." The kids probably can't tell, but Matt can hear how rough Jim's voice is. "Bye bye." Matt dares to open his eyes just a crack, and through the fringe of his lashes he sees Jim put the phone down in the space between them, sees Jim press a hand against his face, shoulders tight. He pushes the heel of his palm down, like he wants to pop his eyes out of their sockets. 

Does Jim _like_ being in pain? Is that it?

Matt wants to take his hand away, but that would mean revealing that he's awake. And talking about last night. So he doesn't, lets Jim pick up his phone again, scroll for a bit, probably Twitter, then pressing a few buttons on the touchscreen. 

"Hey." His voice is lighter, freer, less exhaustion. Flirtatious even. This has to be one of his less platonic contacts. Matt shuts his eyes again, feels Jim leave the bed and pad towards the bathroom, closing the door so Matt can't hear anything. Now, he opens his eyes fully, stares at the stripe of light coming from the slightly opened curtain, painting a line on the ceiling. 

Jim was doing him a favor. That's what's gnawing at the back of his mind. After all, Jim had admitted, in the throes of passion, that he knew how Matt felt. And Jim, merciful or perhaps merciless, had thrown him this bone. Had decided to be kind, at least what he thought was kind, and offer himself to Matt, let Matt have a taste of what he craved. 

Like he was a Christmas gift. Or a sacrificial lamb. 

That was all it was, it must be. Jim decided to do something for his friend, for Matt. And Matt should be grateful, he should be. He got what he wanted, he got Jim, if only for a drunken night in a foreign city just before they go back home. But there's a word banging around in his skull, in time to his hang over headache: _used_. He feels like Jim used him, to forget, and Matt used him right back, to get what he'd been craving for so long. 

 _Fuck,_  he thinks to himself.

That brings up a memory of last night. Matt, panting, yearning and desperate, "fuck me," feels the curves of Jim's smile, sharp and wicked and beautiful and lustful, against his skin. Jim, brushing a hand through his hair, cupping his cheek, "of course, Matty, of course," and then giving Matt exactly what he'd wanted. 

Matt shudders at the thought of it, the remnants of it. 

_Fuck!_

 

 

 

It's dark when the cab finally pulls up on Jim's street. They haven't been talking all that much, trans Atlantic flights are long and Jim's inability to really sleep on planes means that he's very clearly exhausted. He has his head leaned back, exposing his throat. Matt remembers kissing the sensitive skin there. 

His hands clench in his lap. 

"Well." Jim's voice is soft in the silence, and he rolls his head to look at Matt. "Back to the grind tomorrow." 

"Ugh," Matt groans without thinking, like nothing's changed. Maybe nothing has. "That's a pleasant thought." Jim huffs a laugh, sits up straight and rubs at his shoulders, like he's tense. "I don't think it should be too dramatic though," Matt continues. "How much trouble can one man get into in less than twelve hours?" Jim's laugh is more full throated this time. 

"Don't fucking jinx it!" He swats at Matt's arm lightly. 

This. This is why Matt fell in love with Jim Acosta. He's beautiful, yes, heartachingly so, and apparently ridiculously good in bed. But there's the rest of him too, the larger than his own body personality, the tenacity that makes him hound dictators, the sheer amount of life in him that seeps out of every pore. The part that makes him Matt's friend, that's what makes Matt love him, not just crush on him, lust after him. It's why even if Jim had never slept with him he would have kept on loving him. 

They pull up, and Matt turns to say goodbye. Jim's looking in his direction, and the look on his face almost stops Matt's heart. It's tender and soft, eyes melted, every line and hardship erased off of Jim's face, the corners of his lips turned up slightly in a sweet smile. It's the most open, the most loving, that Matt has ever seen him, and Matt has seen him around a lot of people he knows he loves or had loved. Something settles in his chest. 

For a moment, a wild and desperate moment, he thinks that this is it. That he's been let in. Then he notices that Jim's eyes aren't on him, but beyond him, out the window. Matt turns and glances out, and almost sobs. Because he's pathetic. 

Waiting at Jim's brownstone, looking down at his phone so that the light illuminates the lines around his mouth, is Jake fucking Tapper. And that look, that _I'm as in love with you as you are with me even if it might kill us both_ look, that wasn't for Matt, that was for him. Like everything, for Tapper. Of course. That's the way it goes, after all, that's how it always goes. When he turns to look at Jim, he sees that Jim has an easy smile on his face, eyes twinkling, already grabbing his bag and opening the door of the cab to step out. 

He leans close to Matt, squeezes him goodbye, seemingly unaware of Matt's pounding heart. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he tells him casually, breath washing against his cheek. Intoxicating. As he steps out, Matt hears him call out to Tapper, "The Hell are you even doing, Jacob?" There's laughter in his voice, an intimacy that Matt has never gotten for him. The cab door closes, and even though he's not one of the two men outside, he feels like he's been left out in the cold. 

He hears himself give the directions back to his place. He sounds like he's underwater. He feels like it too. 

 

 

 

The myth of Icarus. A boy with wings on his back, a makeshift angel, flies too close to the sun. He falls to the ocean below. There's a clear line to draw between that story and this one. 

Jim Acosta, destined to fall, flying high, too high. 

Jake Tapper, the sun casts him down through too much love. 

Matt Hoye, the ocean that wants consumes him too late. 

A tragedy, how that story goes. A tragedy, how this one is going to go too. 


End file.
